Remember the Fisher King
by Zeff N Company
Summary: A FF7/FF8/KH2 X-over of elements: And the people of Fisherman's Horizon call him Cloud - just Cloud - for like a cloud he is merely a presence, slowly drifting further and further away...


_An old piece that I've finally got my act together and finished. My thanks to my usual muses for reminding me about it._

_Crossover specifics: Final Fantasy VII characters in Final Fantasy VIII setting, with a scene out of Kingdom Hearts II.  
_

* * *

In a place they call Fisherman's Horizon, he is a Fisher King who sits by the harbor, where the sun comes up early from one side and sets in the other. He has eyes of brittle blue, and that spark of a mysterious green - a green that seems out of this world, that seems to be part of a world no other man will see. His face is wizened with his many decades of living and enduring, and his hair is falling away from the medication they put him on; he has to wear a woolen cap these days, else the cold hurt his head.

There he sits - this Fisher King - on that harbor, and only one sits by him through all those daily hours. A grizzled Moomba, so very advanced that his once brilliant fiery fur is now brindled gunmetal silver, and his once active self is now content to just sit or lie in a semi-reclined position, content to listen - only listen, for his eyes are not as keen as they used to be. Yet there remains behind the thickening gray fog in his pupils, a soft spark of blue - a sign of deep wisdom that only one of his age has claimed, and no one else shall come to know.

And there in the Fisher King's hand is a long thin fishing rod, held slack that it lies flat over the leg he places it horizontally upon. The line is deep within the water, but at its end there is no bait - no need for bait. It is not what is within the water that this wizened King is fishing for. It is not something material, nothing that is visible to the next person. Nothing that anyone else will understand.

The Fisher King fishes for his dreams, and every day his catch is bountiful - so bountiful, he is lost within it, that no one can pull him out.

And the people of Fisherman's Horizon call him Cloud - just Cloud - for like a cloud he is merely a presence, slowly drifting further and further away. His true name is unknown, even to the man himself; if he did know it, it would most likely be but yet another lie.

* * *

"...don't feel good..."

A notched gray ear twitches, even as the Moomba remains curled up, snuggling against the warmth of a jean-covered shin. Oblivious, the one he reclines against mutters some more, speaking to the cool air about him.

"Let me out... ... Ten..."

"He's counting again."

"Leave him alone, Denny."

"... Eight... Twenty-one..."

"What's he thinking, anyway? Last time he snapped out of it long enough to notice anything, he called me _Denzel_..!"

"Leave him alone, Denny," the lady repeats sharply, and the boy who is her companion at last backs off.

"Five... Four... Three... Two... One..." the old man keeps counting, the conversation that is so close going unheard to his ears. Next to him, the Moomba raises his head long enough to yawn openly, his tail flicking up for a moment as he attempts half a stretch before lying down again.

"Well, I'd better go. Good luck with him again, Tifa."

"Don't call me that."

"_He_ calls you that."

"Just get out of here, Dennis."

"Sorry. I'll see you later, alright? Love you."

The tiles echo the repeated sound of heavy soles clopping upon them, and the Moomba looks up again. A gentle hand scratches behind his ear in quiet greeting, and that one passes on through, the sounds fading with him as he disappears. Still, the old man notices nothing, lost in his plentiful catch of dreams...

"... Alright, that's ten. I'm gettin' out..."

...and although events are playing out in the old man's mind, he remains in his place, and he never moves.

* * *

_His name is Cloud Strife, and he is a hero. He carries the sword of a predecessor, and he saves the world with that sword. There are people who follow him, and respect him. There are those who are even attracted to him, he notices._

_And here, in this place, he is the great hero, the man who will fell the enemy and save the day. The man who will avenge those who have fallen before the enemy._

_He is a hero._

_Always a hero._

"... Dad? ... Hi, again - I thought I'd drop by before leaving... I hear you're doing well..."

_The enemy is a tall man with silver hair, and dresses in a black coat with silver shoulder protectors. He carries a sword as long as he is tall, and with that sword has burned everything he treasured down to the ashes._

_The enemy is there, and he will fight that enemy. He will never forgive that enemy. And he will fight, and he will win, for he is a hero._

"...here, Dad, I've brought your lunch. It's your favorite, you know, and just the way you like it... Your friend gets some, too, of course..."

_He had respected the enemy once. The enemy had so much greatness to achieve, so much good to accomplish._

_The enemy had once been a hero, just like him, and he had been proud of that past hero._

_He was not proud of this enemy. He was ashamed of all that the enemy did._

"Well, my job's fine...so is your shop, I heard... I... I know you were hoping one of us could succeed you in the business, but...it's really doing better as it is now. I make sure of that, myself - they still use those ribbons like you wanted...that color of your best girl's, too..."  
_  
The enemy is Sephiroth. The enemy is the monster. The enemy...has ruined everything._

_He is the hero, and he hates the enemy._

"...come on, Dad, come back for a moment. Your sandwich is getting cold."

"It's no use, Seth - your father won't move an inch; just let the Moomba handle it."

"...alright... I just hoped..."

"I know. I'm sorry, Seth."

"It's not your fault..."

_The enemy killed the two people he loved. He caused the death of a good hero, the hero that made _Him _a hero. The hero that is now dead, leaving nothing but a sword._

_And the enemy has killed that hero's love. His love. He killed her. Killed them both. Killed their memories._

_Curse the enemy to the grave, for the enemy has too much blood on his hands._

_The enemy has ruined everything..._

* * *

"... Tiffany?" and the lady with her dark hair looked up, eyes meeting with that of the man before her as he continued: "Have Zachary and Erin ever come by to visit?"

"Not yet," was the somber answer. "You're the only one of his three children who even bothers these days. Ever since his mind started deteriorating..."

"Maybe if I talked to them-"

"I won't matter," is her interruption, her tone laced with a hint of exasperation. "As far as your father is concerned, they're dead. Not incorrigible - just...dead. He still mourns them."

The man comes up to stand by her, his expression so very tired and depressing. "I can't help but think it's my fault, sometimes..."

"None of that," she cuts him off at once. "Your siblings' choices were their own, not yours to influence in any way. What they chose to do - what broke your father so badly - that's not your burden to carry."

"I know...but somehow, I can't help but feel he hates me for it. I was the promising one, and I let him down..."

"Seth..."

"I know..."

There is a soft mewling, and the man turns to the old one's companion. Milky pupils are directed at him, as though the Moomba can still see, and is looking at him. Tentatively, he reaches out, stroking gray and dark silver fur back to earn a quiet purr of appreciation. As he takes his hand back, he watches the Moomba sit up slowly, reach for the plate's contents, and set them upon the old man's lap.

At last the old man reacts, muttering a name that only the Moomba can hear, and at last he takes from the plate to eat. The Moomba sits back once more, occasionally accepting a morsel of bread from the hand that moves ever so slowly. It's all part of routine to them, here...

"How are the triplets doing?" the lady is asking, regaining his attention in a moment.

"All are well - here, I have a photograph of them." A wallet is produced as he speaks, and the small square is passed.

"...look at that - they all take after you! Especially that one over there - what's his name again?"

"Kaden? His mother thinks he takes after me a little _too_ much..."

And for a moment, they just laugh - they need to laugh, to momentarily forget all that troubles them in this moment. The old man is apart from them, and does not so much as flinch at the sound about him. There is a soft "clink" which is the Moomba bringing the dish over, and the lady takes it from him.

"... I brought them once, while you were visiting your brothers. I wanted them to meet their grandfather..."

"I take it didn't go well?"

"...that's an understatement."

* * *

_The enemy had three spawn. Three puppets. The enemy sent them to him, to test him. To mock him._

_One is stupid, a big child. Another is weak, needs the stupid one to help him._

_The only one he needs to be careful about, is the one that is the closest resemblance to the enemy._

_Kadaj is that one's name. Kadaj is the one most like Sephiroth._

_He is the hero, and he has to stop that one. Stop Kadaj._

_"I will show you my reunion...brother..."_

_Stop Kadaj before he becomes Sephiroth._

"The kids ask about you, you know... You weren't all that friendly with them, I know, but they're kids. They care about their Grandpa. Kaden, especially..."  
_  
Stop either of them from returning._

"Dad, come on... My kids just want their Grandpa to notice them, just like everyone else's grandparents. They want you to smile for them..."  
_  
"Long time no see... Cloud..."_

"... _I_ want you to smile for them, Dad..."  
_  
But he can stop Kadaj. He can't stop Sephiroth._

_"Tell me what you cherish most. Give me the pleasure of taking it away."  
_  
"...come on, Dad. I know you still hear me in there... Talk to me, will you?"  
_  
That enemy that always returns. Refuses to just stay away._

_Refuses to just stay in his bitter memories._

"I'm not mad at you, Dad. I just want to know that you're still in there..."

"Stay there for me...trapped in memories..."

"Dad...?!"  
_  
Refuses to just be a damned, cursed memory..._

"... Dad..."

_"I will...never be a memory..."_

"... I'll... I'll come back again tomorrow alright?"

_One feathered wing... A one-winged angel...the mark of the enemy. The enemy that will never be a memory._

_The enemy that will never leave him alone._

"...bye, Dad."

* * *

The day draws to a close, and the Fisher King still sits by the harbor, catching nothing but more dreams. Beside him is the old Moomba who is getting older every day, getting slower, getting more tired.

Yet, the old Moomba that is so very close to the end of his life...never leaves. Never leaves his King. They are always together like this, even as one is getting too much older than the one he is so devoted to.

There, in the bountiful yield of dreams, the Fisher King sees times when he must continue to deal with his persistent enemy. Yet, there are those times when he sees he is not alone in his fight - in some of these dreams he has fished, he is still the hero, and he sees another fighter: a fighter with a dark mane and eyes of blue-gray, strong and lithe, always there to do what he has to do.

In his dreams, he is still the hero, and that fighter is another hero.

In his dreams, that hero is his friend.

The one friend he trusts to leave him be in his personal business...

_"Think you can handle this many?"_

"...well...might be tough if one more shows up..." the King mutters, a small smirk on his face as he talks to the tip of his fishing rod.

_"Then that'll be the one I take care of."_

A soft mewl to his side, and the old Moomba places his head upon the King's knee, the tag of the chain collar around his neck dangling in the space between the King's legs.

"What...you're fighting, too?"

The wizened, ancient one sighs softly - tired and feeling his age getting closer still - and his fogged eyes slide shut momentarily as he takes a moment to just rest.

"... Leonhart..."

The old Moomba's notched ear twitches once more, and the grizzled head lifts to regard the man who calls to him. The Fisher King does not look his way, his mind focused on his greatest dream ever...

"When you get it all back...you'll be Squall again, huh?"

At last, the hand moves once more, and is placed reverently over coarse fur that still feels soft to his age-dulled senses.

And from the space between the Fisher King's legs, the tag crafted as a lion's head on a partial Celtic cross is covered in scratches and dull tarnish, but continues to twinkle in the slowly fading light of the setting sun...

* * *

Every morning that comes to past, in a place they call Fisherman's Horizon, he is still a Fisher King who sits by the harbor, where the sun continues to come up early from one side and set in the other.

Still, he has eyes of brittle blue, with that same spark of a mysterious green - a green that seems out of this world, that seems to be part of a world no other man will see. A green that gets more obvious and brighter with every day that passes.

His face is more wizened with more years upon his decades of living and enduring, and still he wears a woolen cap, else the cold hurt his head. That cap seems more obvious, as less hair peeks through.

And still there does he sit - this Fisher King - on that harbor, and still does only one - the same one - sit by him through all those daily hours.

The grizzled Moomba who was once covered in brilliant fiery fur is now brindled gunmetal silver, and that brindle gets brighter as more hairs turn from gray to white. His once active self remains so content to just lie in a reclined position now, too tired to keep sitting up, and he is asleep more often than he is awake.

Still, even with his old, milky gray eyes shut, he is listening - always listening, his ears still keen enough to make up for what he is losing with his sight. In those times when he does open his eyes, the spark of blue is more muted behind that now opaque gray fog in his pupils - a sign of his age more than his wisdom now, and of how little time he still has.

And still, there in the Fisher King's hand, is that long thin fishing rod, held slack that it lies flat over the leg he places it horizontally upon. The line remains deep within the water, and at its end there is still no bait - still no need for bait.

The old Fisher King will never catch a live creature anymore, even if he wanted to. All he can go for with success, is something that is immaterial, something that is invisible to the next person. Something that no one else - except his ancient friend - will understand.

For the Fisher King still fishes for his dreams, and every day his catch continues to be bountiful - so bountiful, he is lost within it, that no one can ever pull him out again.

And the people of Fisherman's Horizon call him Cloud - just Cloud - for like a cloud he is merely a presence, slowly drifting further and further away.

His true name is unknown, even to the man himself; if he did know it, it would most likely be but yet another lie.

Yet another of his many, many dreams...

* * *

_I used to see an old man out in the streets, homeless and tired. Sometimes, I'd buy him a turkey sub and a coffee, and we'd sit on a bench together to just talk. He was a schizophrenic, I think, and believed that his children were part of an unknown enemy's network that wanted him dead. I felt so helpless as I listened, because I knew to him, that world was so real, and he alone existed in that world._

_I never saw him again, but I remember him well. He was a hero in his own world - a world full of villains - and in his struggle against an enemy that no one else could help him with... I saw that he was, indeed, a hero._

_A hero that will never give up, no matter how tragic his ending.  
_


End file.
